Tag Archive | ocean

crushed cans v/s broken shells

Cans and shells are both abandoned when no longer useful.

One, when empty (by man). One, when full (by glob-footed organisms).

Glob-footed organisms cannot live inside aluminum cans.

Shells do not litter the streets of major cities.

Broken shells can mulch flower beds.

Crushed cans cannot be flower vases.

Neither makes a tasteful ashtray.

Neither illustrates prayers or sells in tourist shops.

Neither is likely to be gilded, to impress ladies at a luncheon party, or to evoke true love.

Either might evoke memories of an ex.

Neither can nor shell should be clutched too tightly to the bosom.

Neither is an apt metaphor for the muse.  Neither inspires odes.  O cracked bit of shell O crushed aluminum can

And so forth.

The shell, broken, reveals a lustrous encapsulation of roseate dawn.  It is pleasing to the thumb.

The can, crushed, is  illegible.  Its crinkled lip flashes in the sun like a razor.

More sea trash (read bones, candy wrappers, a winnowing basket here).

–The Odalisque

staghorn post

me wearing red harem pants in odalisque solidarity

I have decided to send a secret message to Henriette.  Carrier pigeon post was not an option as she is incarcerated in a basement, which I assume has no windows.  Therefore, I am using staghorn post.   This  service, with their wide net-work of inconspicuous agents, will be able to return any messages to me even though only a single agent (who lives here in the obelisk) knows of my actual location.

I have placed a misleading return address in case my message is intercepted.  Just let those authorities try to find me on the open seas where I will never, never go again!!

More as the situation develops.

(Read about my imprisoned friend, Henriette, here.)

–The Odalisque

my swim-suit

Summer is upon us!  It’s time to feature, as promised in my sensationally popular post FASHION,  my swim-suit.

In my post  Odalisques & the Ocean I described the sea as teeming with crepuscular carnage:

(Hail the living ocean the wreckage of shore!  The dark things that sift through the muck of its floor.   The fish, angels of numbness, glittering like jewels in a crypt.  The eels and spiny things, glass-eyed, lidless conglomerations of hideousness both repellent and fascinating.)

Ages ago I happened upon the perfect swim-suit for braving the high seas.  My very fashionable swim-suit is a super-hot metallic with jewels and gilding strategically placed to accentuate my odalisquan curves:

my swimsuit
  [click to enlarge]

I love my swim-suit!  I always stand-out at the beach, and best of all, I feel confident and secure, prepared for anything the sea might spit at me!   I always wear a bathing cap to protect my head in case of unforeseen collisions with crashing rocks.  This one has goggles built in so when I’m underwater I can open my eyes to defend myself.  I swim with a sword, as well as my pen, which appears to deter ships, even when I’m drowning.

If hawk is planning a visit,  I could stab us a fish!

–The Odalisque


[       ] Odalisque.

click to enlarge.

Fig. 1


Fig.2 (Verso)


(ghosts carry blessings & strange dreams around sharp corners through cracks in the sill.)

(moonlight turns the turn of the stair into an ascension.)

(nails loosen.)

(boards creak.)

(ghosts carry blessings and strange dreams in their open palms.)



they are exquisitely delicate


(tangles of dust pins string hair.)

odalisques & the ocean

There are many things in my life which begin with the letter O.  O radiant heaven, an odalisque in an obelisk lives near the ocean!  You can see this on the map of where I live, posted on the about page.  The ocean is to the East, which means the sun rises out of it, and the moon.  As you can see from the map, there is a sand path sifted out of dunes that runs to the shore.  I have not yet taken it.

I have not left the obelisk.

From my high position, I see everything around me.  But vantage obscures detail, scope excludes intimacy (as the birds know, from their dreams).   I am not intimated in the sift of sand, the sting of salt.   I am not intimated in the shore’s cemetery, where the sea spits up its dead, only to scarf them down again.

I cannot always see the ocean from my window and this is fortunate because when I can see it, it demands all my attention.    I do not understand how people live right on the ocean because I do not understand how, if they live there, they accomplish anything.   The ocean demands attention, its variant surfaces of mood and weather, its volume, its aggression and retreat.  Fluctuation is its constant, yet, on solid earth,  it orients the movement of stars– I watch astronomical bodies revolve over it.

Ships never appear, wrecked in storms and on rocks, no doubt.  Lured by turbulent dreaming, the imaginary things with which we populate the earth’s teeming, indifferent mess.   Whirlpools.  Sirens.  Storm gods.  Monstrous sea-snakes.   Full fathom five who there lies?  Pearls and monsters are more palatable than fact: the ocean seethes with crepuscular carnage.   Tier upon tier of species, bioluminescent or dark as shadows, colorful as glass or amorphous.  Furred, tentacled, wormy, lidless, blind,  all feed on one another.   Swallow.  Scavenge.  Catabolize excrement.

I watch the ocean when it is in the window of my obelisk.

The birds say it is very pleasant on the shore, when the sun is middling high and breezes blow.  That I should put on some clothes and go for a stroll.  Take a parasol.  Some scissors.  A picnic.  A towel.

But I have not walked there.  I have not walked there.

One day I will go.

–The Odalisque

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